Indian Takeaway Part 8

I had asked Rovi to book me in to a wee, una.s.suming neighbourhood hotel. Delhi is full of them. As we pull up to the Crossroads Hotel I know that I'm in the right place. It's a sweet little place just off the main road, near the new Delhi Metro, a train system that seems to have revolutionised the city. The reception of Crossroads smells like any mid-rate Indian hotel should smell: of sandalwood and man sweat. The place is a homage to marble and velour and there seem to be flat screen plasma TVs everywhere, as well as shrines to various Hindu deities. Modern India in a nutsh.e.l.l. (Probably a betel nutsh.e.l.l.) I check in thinking this will be the end of the night. I am wrong. It's late but Rovi wants to take me on a midnight tour of the old city, a place called Jama Masjid in the Muslim quarter of Old Delhi. I can't say that I am that keen to travel around, given my nightmare journey with diarrhoea. Decent public toilets are not something one can ever bank on anywhere in India, not even in the capital city. But Rovi is a difficult guy to say no to.

Soon we find ourselves travelling though the Old City. It was built in Moghul times, a walled fortress of a place. The city was accessed via a number of gates, gates which are now themselves fenced off and protected as items of architectural interest. The walls have long since fallen but the demarcation between the bright, s.h.i.+ny, broad boulevards of New Delhi and the dark, dank alleyways, nooks and crannies of Old Delhi couldn't be more apparent.

We pa.s.s the majestic Red Fort, the Moghul emperor's seat from which the Chandni Chowk stretches out, the main market street of the Old City. We drive through the crowded streets, peopled almost exclusively by men. Each area contains a different market. There is a book market, a textile market and a vegetable market outside which stand trucks overladen with cauliflowers. Rovi is keen to take me to a place called Paratha ki Gully, the alley of parathas. For the uninitiated a paratha is a delicious flaky bread indigenous to the north of India. It is made with flour and water and the dough is enriched with ghee or b.u.t.ter making the deliciously flaky bread a meal in itself. It can be served simply with yoghurt and pickles, or the paratha can be stuffed with any number of delicious fillings: potato, minced lamb, paneer, cauliflower, fenugreek, white radish, even egg. In the Punjab it is the staple breakfast dish, which probably explains why the life expectancy of Sikhs is lower than any other ethnic Indian grouping!

Paratha ki Gully is still vibrant after midnight. The alleyway itself is no wider than a couple of metres and there are stalls or shops lining the side of the road. This is a side of India kept only for the Indians. The businesses are closed but preparations are being made for the next day. A man absent-mindedly counts potatoes; two men sit cross-legged gossiping and laughing as they chop pumpkins; steel dishes clatter and clank as boys wash and clean them after another day's cooking; a couple of men eye us suspiciously as they eat their daal and chapatti dinner.

We wander further down, our alley meeting another alley. Rovi explains that these alleys spider their way into the heart of the Old City, twisting and turning, tributaries of life. Two small boys, no older than seven, are earnestly sc.r.a.ping the bottom of a halwa halwa pan. pan. Halwa Halwa is a dessert traditionally made in these parts of carrot, ghee and your body weight in sugar. The rim of the pan is wider than the boys are tall. is a dessert traditionally made in these parts of carrot, ghee and your body weight in sugar. The rim of the pan is wider than the boys are tall.

It is curious to consider how, as much as Indian food has been taken to the very heart of British life, it is only the savoury dishes that have actually succeeded there. Indians have a very sweet tooth and we are renowned for our love of sweetmeats and puddings, but these are joys yet to be fully appreciated by the western palate ... and dentist.

Seven Indian sweets that are delicious .

Gulab Jaman: A dumpling made from dough that is the result of thickened condensed milk. Lest the thickened sweetened milk be too healthy, these b.a.l.l.s of saccharine delight are then deep fried until they turn golden brown on the outside, maintaining a delicious spongy white texture within. For good measure the round roses (a literal translation of gulab gulab jaman jaman) are doused in sugar syrup. They are absolutely delicious hot or cold.

Ras Gula: This can be colloquially described as an Indian milk ball. Much as that is factually correct, it barely begins to tell the story of this sweet treat. These little beauties are the by-product of milk that has been split, much in the same way as paneer is made. The solid part of the split milk is kept and blended with cardamom before being rolled again into the ball shape. Meanwhile a pan of water is put onto boil and an excessive amount of sugar is added. The b.a.l.l.s are then carefully added to the boiling syrup where they gently cook. The ras gulas ras gulas are then left to cool and are served with a healthy spoonful of the cooled sugar syrup. Delicious, if a little cloyingly sweet. are then left to cool and are served with a healthy spoonful of the cooled sugar syrup. Delicious, if a little cloyingly sweet.

Ras Malai: A variation on ras gula. Ras malai ras gula. Ras malai requires the split milk not to be crafted into a spherical offering. Rather the milk solids are more slab-like in their consistency and are drenched in milk that has been flavoured with pistachio nuts and/or almonds and/or cardamom. A personal favourite of mine. Less sweet than either requires the split milk not to be crafted into a spherical offering. Rather the milk solids are more slab-like in their consistency and are drenched in milk that has been flavoured with pistachio nuts and/or almonds and/or cardamom. A personal favourite of mine. Less sweet than either gulab jaman gulab jaman or or ras gula ras gula.

Jalebi: A deep-fried fl our-based sweet. The jalebi jalebi looks a little like a pretzel and is definitively north Indian, with links with Persian food history. They are normally a vibrant orange colour and very sweet. They too are served with a sugary syrup but in the Punjab they are often served with milk. They are sticky, sweet and lovely. looks a little like a pretzel and is definitively north Indian, with links with Persian food history. They are normally a vibrant orange colour and very sweet. They too are served with a sugary syrup but in the Punjab they are often served with milk. They are sticky, sweet and lovely.

Barfi: Yet another condensed milk dessert. Rather than eaten after a meal, barfi barfi is a snack enjoyed with tea. There are as many flavours of is a snack enjoyed with tea. There are as many flavours of barfi barfi as there are flavours at all. Almond, pistachio, saffron, rose water, even chocolate as there are flavours at all. Almond, pistachio, saffron, rose water, even chocolate barfi barfi. They are normally bite-sized and served in squares, parallelograms or occasionally rhombuses. These sweets go some way to explain the love Indians have for geometry.

Kulfi: Regarded as Indian ice cream, but in truth it is frozen milk. Unlike ice cream kulfi kulfi is not churned and therefore is dense and complex rather than aerated and light. is not churned and therefore is dense and complex rather than aerated and light.

Falooda: This is dedicated to the colour pink and perhaps explains my own love of the colour. A rose-water-flavoured milk is enhanced with sweet vermicelli strands, basil seeds and ice cream. Like jalebi, falooda jalebi, falooda has strong links with Persia and was more than likely inspired by the Moghul invaders. has strong links with Persia and was more than likely inspired by the Moghul invaders.

Rovi and I venture deeper into the dark city. It feels a little like Harry Potter's Diagon Alley; strange characters lurk in shadowy corners, unfamiliar noises can be heard behind every wall and there is the smell of soured milk (maybe that wasn't in J.K. Rowling's books ...). We have left Paratha ki Gully far behind and are now wandering towards Chandni Chowk. There is a famous old restaurant that started here back in the early part of the last century. Karim's is regarded by Delhites as the best example of Moghul food anywhere to be found in India. We turn another corner and the road has become smoother and cleaner. We have found it. A placard outside tells me that Karim's was started in 1913 by Hafiz Karim Uddin. It was initially just a tawa tawa off Kababian Street. A off Kababian Street. A tawa tawa is a flat steel skillet. It comes in a variety of sizes and has a multiplicity of uses in the north Indian house. Chapattis and parathas are cooked on it, small snacks are shallow fried on it, even chicken and lamb can be fried on it. The story suggests that the original Karims was an al fresco cooking experience nearly a century ago. is a flat steel skillet. It comes in a variety of sizes and has a multiplicity of uses in the north Indian house. Chapattis and parathas are cooked on it, small snacks are shallow fried on it, even chicken and lamb can be fried on it. The story suggests that the original Karims was an al fresco cooking experience nearly a century ago.

Rovi insists that we stop and have a small snack. My heart and my head would love to, but my stomach has other plans.

'Not a great idea,' I explain to Rovi, patting my distended belly.

'You're in Delhi, you have a bad belly. Delhi belly!' He laughs. I can't help joining in.

We wander back to the car, enjoying the scene in reverse. Outside one stall a dozen or so men sit on the ground, their hands stretched outward in supplication. Rovi explains that these wretched souls are waiting for someone to bestow a little charity on them. They are hoping that some rich individual might offer the stall holder the price of a meal on their behalf. Begging for food is more likely to meet with success than begging for money. At least the donor has some comfort in knowing that their contribution has been put to good use. I ask that price. Twenty rupees will feed a single man. About thirty pence. I feel physically sick. I think about how much I myself eat, and waste, the money I squander on half-eaten sandwiches and tepid cappuccinos. I leave enough money to feed twenty men but can't bear to watch.

Driving around the city at night the traffic is blissfully unaware of the late hour. Delhi is a daunting city, constantly changing. One moment your horizon is wide, filled with tree-lined boulevards and colonial architecture. A couple of left turns later you are in the midst of a medieval town, the imposing buildings blocking the moonlit sky. Urban India never sleeps, but Delhi seems to be urban India on espresso. It has the constant buzz of a city that is constant. Rovi tells me that I was lucky to miss Diwali last year; the traffic was unbearable. People left their cars and walked, carrying gifts for their families to celebrate Hindu New Year.

'It was madness. Unbelievable madness. It took four hours to travel a few kilometres. Everyone was in their car taking presents everywhere.'

Rovi tells me that as a result of India's newfound affluence, people have more money to spend. So when it comes to festivals like Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Light which is commonly regarded as their New Year, families decide to shower gifts on each other in a way that seems to embrace the free market more than the cleansing quality of light. This seems a far cry from the Delhi of my dad's day. Even when I first came to Delhi as a boy you couldn't get any products that weren't made in India. It's difficult to believe now but the only cola drinks you could buy were Indian-owned brands like Thums [sic] Up or Campa Cola. Now India is the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of globalisation: there isn't anything you can't get here. It's midnight and we are stuck in a traffic jam.

'This is the other side of the economic boom,' Rovi mutters, as irritated as his lovely nature will allow him to get. Of all the consequences of a burgeoning economy very bad traffic is not one I would have ever thought of. Rovi never seems to tire of fetching and carrying and bringing and delivering; for him to complain about traffic things must be bad.

'Thank G.o.d for the metro.'

Delhi is India's only city to have a subway system and it has been a ma.s.sive success. Hundreds of thousands of Indians travel to and fro on a daily basis. The sweeping streets of the suburbs are smoothly and efficiently linked to the stone-built edifices of the bureaucratic heart of India. Journey times have been slashed. The train stations and the trains themselves are clean and reliable; two words not readily a.s.sociated with all things Indian. The mind boggles as to what the state of the roads would be if Delhi didn't have such an effectively elegant underground system. Delhi feels like another future for India, a future in which Bangalore is already playing a part. Between them it seems as if India will be more than capable of dealing with the unfolding century and the millennium ahead. But I am in Delhi to cook and hopefully also to find myself.

My plan is simple. It's a ma.s.sive place; there is no way I can find a single group of people to cook for that is at all representative of the entire city. Unlike Bombay with its world-renowned a.s.sociation with the movie business, Delhi has everything. Everything and politics. I don't fancy cooking for politicians, so the next best thing might be to cook a small dinner party for a bunch of Delhi socialites. Delhi is full of old-money Indians; the city teems with the bolder and more beautiful children of the bold and beautiful and it would be fun to meet them. I have a contact from London, a lady with a great name: Lucky.

And what better to cook than soup? A lovely, traditional Scottish soup. Ever since I bottled it in Kovalam and failed to cook stovies, I have been rather remiss in preparing the food of Britain. What the Delhites need is c.o.c.k-a-leekie soup. The soft, b.u.t.tery leeks combining with those that still have some give all melded together in that lovely chicken broth. Everyone knows that any good soup is made better when allowed to sit for a few hours, preferably overnight. A lady called Clara taught me this.

When I was at university in Glasgow, there was only one place to go and eat, the Grosvenor Cafe. To say the Grosvenor was a cafe is like saying Jimi Hendrix was a man who played the guitar; it barely begins to tell the story. The Grosvenor was an inst.i.tution, a sanctuary, a way of life. I grew up in the Grosvenor, I lived in the Grosvenor, I loved in the Grosvenor but mostly I ate in the Grosvenor. When my wife was my girlfriend, we spent afternoons drinking coffee and chatting. So frequent a visitor was I that in the days before mobile phones, people would phone me at the Grosvenor.

The Grosvenor was run by an Italian family. The patriarch Renato, his wife Liliana and his sister Clara. There was something called the Grosvenor five-pound challenge. So cheap was the food at the Grosvenor that we students reckoned it was impossible for even the hungriest of us to eat 5 worth of Grosvenor food. To put this into some sort of perspective, back in the eighties when the fas.h.i.+on was terrible and the hair was big, to spend 5 on food at the Grosvenor meant the consumption of an egg burger (a beef burger with an egg), a croissant filled with tuna mayonnaise, two fried egg rolls, apple pie and ice cream and a thing called a ben loars (I don't really know what a ben loars was but it was named after a small Scottish mountain, that's how big it was). If you managed to scoff that much carbohydrate, it would cost you eight pence over 5. (I'm not sure I've eaten that much food in a day, let alone a single sitting, not even during my Sadhya meal extravaganza in Kovalam.) Not meaning to be boastful, I did hold the record for my time at university when it came to the Grosvenor challenge. I bet you didn't realise you were reading the story of a man who achieved the high 3.80s early in the winter of 1988. I was a ben loars and an egg roll short of the status of legend.

I would walk by the Grosvenor three or four times a day between lectures and I remember distinctly one day the most entrancing of aromas emanating from the tiny kitchen. It could only be one thing: Clara's minestrone soup. Now, I know it was Glasgow and I know it was the 1980s, not perhaps a city or a time redolent of gastronomy, but the Scottish Italian community had been alive and kicking for decades at that point and we were very grateful to them for the food they brought. Chief amongst objects of grat.i.tude was Clara's minestrone soup. It was b.l.o.o.d.y delicious. And it came with a roll and b.u.t.ter. I've eaten at multi-Michelin-starred restaurants, I've eaten with royalty and amba.s.sadors, but there are few things finer than Clara's minestrone soup with a roll and b.u.t.ter.

Naturally, upon smelling the minestrone soup, I decided to miss the next lecture and have a bowl of this fine Italian broth. I ordered a bowl. I was salivating at the mere thought of the pasta, tomato and bean concoction. The waitress returned to my table to tell me that there was no minestrone soup. At the same time I saw a bowl of minestrone soup being delivered to the table next to me. Well, you can understand my confusion. I pointed to the adjoining table and told the waitress that their bowl of soup looked deceptively like minestrone. The waitress told me that Clara said I couldn't have a bowl of minestrone soup. I was hurt. Deeply, deeply hurt. Clara came over. 'What's wrong?' I asked. 'Do I not get any minestrone soup?'

'No,' she said, 'you can have the minestrone soup tomorrow, you can't have it today.'

'But you've given it to them,' I protested insolently.

She leaned in and I'll never forget what she said: 'They can have soup today, it was made today, but you, you are special, you can only have the soup tomorrow. It's better tomorrow.'

And do you know what? I did did feel special. From that day on, I always had soup the day after it was made and it always tasted so much better. feel special. From that day on, I always had soup the day after it was made and it always tasted so much better.

Soup is a rural Scottish staple and I intend to cook it in the heart of an Indian metropolis. It is a beautiful juxtaposition. I should tell Lucky. I dial her number.

'Hi, Lucky. It's Hardeep here.'

'Hi!' Her voice crackles with life. 'How are you?'

'I'm good. Just got into town. I was hoping to come and cook for you guys tomorrow.' I am intentionally vague about who she might invite.

'What are you cooking? Something exciting, I hope. I'm a bit of a cook myself.'

I feel more than a little pressure.

'I have all of Gordon Ramsay's books, you know.'

Of course she does.

'So what will you be rustling up? I love all British food, apart from soup. I hate soup.'

'I'd never cook soup in India,' I say and then laugh just a little too hard. 'How do you feel about shepherd's pie?'

'I love shepherd's pie.' She sounds genuinely happy.

'Great!' I say, still trying to work out why I have bottled it. Again.

My father's words are yet again ringing in my ears.

'Son, if British food was all that good, then there would be no Indian restaurants in Britain ... '

I'm feeling vulnerable right now. In Delhi, with all the memories of my childhood, of my dad, I can't help but feel more than a little foolish. Why am I cooking shepherd's pie for a bunch of cosmopolitan Indian glitterati who have no doubt eaten at the finest restaurants across a handful of continents? Why on earth would they want to eat my shepherd's pie?

I try to remind myself that this journey is not actually about the food. The food is a mechanism to unlock doors to people who might be able to shed some light on who I am. Why would a bunch of Indian socialites come out for an evening's Indian food? Where is the fun in that? The shepherd's pie is the quirky enticement, the edge to the evening. I can't imagine they have ever been invited out for meat pie before. There's probably a good reason why ...

These socialites are my contemporaries. They are who I might have been had I been born in India and raised here. They are all better looking and eminently more successful than me but they should prove to be an invaluable touchstone to my own sense of self. How similar are these upper-middle cla.s.s Indians to this middle-cla.s.s me? I will endeavour to find out through the gift of shepherd's pie.

Where do you begin with shepherd's pie? It's all about the meat. For my money, there's only one type of meat for shepherd's pie and that's lamb. I've arranged to meet Lucky at INA market in the centre of New Delhi. This is widely regarded as the most upmarket of all the markets the city has to offer; it's where all the foreigners shop. And as soon as you enter you understand why. The place is a temple to imported goods and produce: tahini paste, pastas, pak choi, fresh herbs, even rocket; this is clearly a place designed for European cuisine and is wholly unIndian. Apart from the imported products, most of the market seems to offer seafood. I don't think I've ever seen such amazing king prawns in all my life, some as big as my hand (and I have substantial hands). Beautiful-looking catfish, delicious tilapia, sizeable sea ba.s.s, pomfret, lobster and squid. This couldn't be less like the market in Goa. The range of produce here is mind-boggling and perhaps more refl ective of the fact that Delhi has long been the home to international politicians and business people. Whereas in Goa I struggled to find potatoes, in INA market I can get hold of two types of anchovy paste and a tin of artichoke hearts. Impressive.

As we walk through this undersea world I can see the meat section ahead. On a raised area two men sit, one with chickens dangling dead and upside down above his head. He plays nonchalantly with a knife as he awaits his next customer. I shall not be bothering him today. My attentions are with the other man who sits cross-legged surrounded by mutton. I manage to get a decent-looking leg of lamb, leaving two sorrier-looking specimens hanging in the otherwise bare room. A tray of offal lies lazily in front of the wooden chopping block.

The picture is a bit like the early work of David Lynch, with hanging carca.s.ses and blood everywhere. Or perhaps that's more Peter Greenaway. I order two kilos of lamb leg and instruct the butcher to cut the lamb into cubes. He is accustomed to cutting lamb into cubes for Indian curries, but they are too big for my needs. But I decide against entering into a dialogue with him; in this instance, size really doesn't matter. (I know many of you will be expecting mince in shepherd's pie; I, however, am a firm believer of nugget-sized mouthfuls of lamb. The texture of minced lamb is less interesting than the variegated chunks of gravy-covered delight that, to my mind, makes the finest shepherd's pie.) Now, I have bought meat in three continents on dozens of occasions. I have visited Tokyo butchers and witnessed their art and craft; the meat men of Peru displayed their skills to me, and Khalid at KRK on Woodlands Road in Glasgow is no stranger to me, but in all my travels in all my time I have never seen a man prepare meat the way the butcher at INA market prepares it. Never. He sits cross-legged with the knife lodged firmly between his big and second toe, the sharp edge pointing away from him. The blade is held strong, unmoving, as he pulls the mutton towards him. He is like the human version of a meat-cutting machine in a delicatessen, the sort that shaves slivers of parma ham. The blade does not move as he dextrously cubes my leg of lamb using his two free hands. There's something fundamentally wrong about a man cutting red meat using his feet.

Having purchased some carrots and potatoes and a bag of frozen peas (which seems utterly incongruous in India), Lucky and I head back to her apartment. Lucky's apartment is nothing short of breathtaking. She left London a year ago having lived and loved the city for the best part of a decade. After reading history and English at Oxford she joined the world of publis.h.i.+ng. She misses London but what's to miss? She has a ma.s.sive three-bedroom apartment with a terrace that itself is the size of a two-bedroom flat in Pimlico, and it is on this terrace we will dine this evening.

Fresh from the memory of the foot-chopping butcher, I wash the lamb more thoroughly than normal. (Although, he did have surprisingly clean feet, considering.) While the potatoes come to the boil in plenty of salted water, I concentrate on sorting the lamb out. Ordinarily when I'm cooking lamb curry there is nothing finer than marrowbone and cartilage mixed in with the meat. This adds another depth of flavour, another flesh experience to enjoy and devour. Perhaps the acceptability of bones in Indian food is linked to the way in which we eat. We pick up food with our fingers, so we are more able to select flesh from bone. Perhaps that's why bones seem to work so readily in that form. However, a big bit of bone and marrow in a shepherd's pie would be an altogether different experience and not a terribly pleasant one. I therefore remove the bones, some cartilage but not all the fat; the fat gives great flavour to shepherd's pie. I then chop the pieces down further still and fry them in a little olive oil, having tossed them in some seasoned flour.

I'm well aware of the fact that pretty much any cuisine in the world will taste bland in comparison to Indian food. So, in the interests of self-preservation, I throw in a couple of green chillies. What did you expect? The lamb is sealed after which I add salt and pepper and a gla.s.s and a half of a 2003 Pinotage. (I am aware of how pretentious that just sounded.) Having reduced the liquor by half, I add two really good dashes of Worcester sauce, some diced red peppers and a good handful of chopped mint. Strictly speaking, peppers and mint don't belong in shepherd's pie, but if you break shepherd's pie down to its const.i.tuent parts, it's basically meat and potatoes with a bit of sauce. The glitterati of young Delhi society have been asked to come round for dinner. I can't just give them meat and potatoes and some sauce.

The lamb is turned out into a ca.s.serole dish and allowed to cool. This, my friends, is possibly the most crucial point in the preparation of shepherd's pie. Trust me. If you do not allow the lamb mixture to cool and dive straight in with your b.u.t.ter-soft mashed potato top, the mashed potato will sink into the hot lamb, thereby rendering the separation of parts useless. Who wants lamby potatoes on top of potatoey lamb? The interface between the lamb and the potatoes is what makes the shepherd's pie work, else we would just mix them altogether and put them in the oven, wouldn't we? Nothing is more crucial than this separation.

Actually, there is one thing that is more crucial than this separation; that might be having enough potatoes to actually cover the lamb.

So preoccupied was I with making sure the lamb was correctly salted, correctly sized and sufficiently spiced, I hadn't realised the paucity of potatoes I'd put on to boil. Embarra.s.singly it would appear I don't have nearly enough potatoes to create the pie-like crust that is the single component that elevates the pie of a shepherd into a higher realm of eating. It's at times like this I wish my mum were here. She would know exactly what to do. Somehow, using a hairpin, an old battery and a courgette, she would fas.h.i.+on a device that could puncture the s.p.a.ce-time continuum and create instant mashed potato without a robot in sight. Instead, I face ignominy. It will be an incomplete mashed potato top. I check my watch; it's not too late to do a runner.

As I consider my options, the doorbell rings. It would appear I now only have the one option: dinner must be served.

With the top of my shepherd's pie looking like the later work of Pablo Pica.s.so, I place it in the oven. In thirty minutes hopefully it won't look too much like a Jackson Pollock. I try to console myself with quality accoutrements. Boiled carrots in b.u.t.ter with pepper and mushrooms in a white wine and fresh coriander sauce, finished with b.u.t.ter; b.u.t.ter in everything. I now have time to kill. The guests have gathered on the beautiful candlelit terrace; the views over the city are sublime. We make the necessary small talk as vodka is sipped and beer is glugged. I can't begin to tell you how much I feel like I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time. I zone out of the conversation for a moment as the vodka works its magic and I spin thirty years back in my head to one of my earliest memories of Delhi at night ...

If ever there was a story that epitomised my love and respect for my father, this is surely it; the story of Mr Muker. My dad's a very generous man and he always endeavours to visit family and extend gifts wherever possible. It transpired that in 1981 a cousin's cousin had found themselves in Delhi. We were visiting, too, so my father took it upon himself to visit this cousin's cousin, one Mr Muker. Of course, it would have been helpful if my father had had a phone number or an address or any details or clues about this Mr Muker. All my father knew was that Mr Muker worked for the government. In India, in the eighties, most people worked for the government; so this information barely narrowed our search. However, my father has never let a lack of information stand in the way of visiting family. He discovered a Mr Muker lived in an adjoining suburb to Manore Uncle. With presents under his arm (a dress for a five-year-old girl and a toy for a two-year-old boy) all six feet two inches of my father, sixteen stone of Manore Uncle and twelve-year-old me placed ourselves upon a 125 cc Bajaj scooter and took to the nocturnal streets of Delhi. We moved around the city like the wind; a slow, slightly lardy wind, and a not particularly comfortable wind, if the truth be told. But in less than an hour, we were knocking on the door of Mr Muker.

Now, there's something you need to know about Indian hospitality. In polite western society, you would never imagine pitching up at somebody's house at nine o'clock in the evening unannounced, uninvited, unexpected. The Indian way is the opposite: whoever turns up at your door, whenever they turn up at your door and whoever they may be with are to be welcomed, given a cup of tea at the least, (although whisky or rum would not be considered inappropriate) and would be fed Indian sweetmeats if not offered a full-blown meal. This perhaps explains the eagerness with which the invading marauders of the British Empire were welcomed; I mean, if a nation is going to give you tea and sweetmeats, there's every chance they'll give you their mineral resources and man power, too.

We were ushered in by a rather surly servant. We sat in an empty drawing room, my father still clutching the presents excitedly. To say Mr Muker looked disgruntled would be an understatement. He looked really p.i.s.sed off. Compared to his harridan of a wife, however, he was sweetness and light. Tea and sweetmeats came without beckoning and the conversation was a little stilted. In an attempt to break the ice, my father handed the presents over hoping to see a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. The children of the house were somewhat older and of slightly different genders. There were two girls, one eight and one nine. The dress for the five-year-old girl may have stretched to fit the eight year old but the gift for a small boy would surely be lost on the elder daughter. However, it's the thought that counts, isn't it?

Obviously, Mr Muker required some context, some frame of reference for this unsolicited social scenario. My father started explaining who he was. The mention of the mutual cousin and the name Babbi fell on deaf ears. Mr Muker didn't have a cousin called Babbi. My dad asked whether Mr Muker worked for the Indian government. Not only did Mr Muker work for the Indian government, Mr Muker was the commissioner of traffic for New Delhi and surrounding areas; one of the most influential jobs in the whole of India's civil service. My dad expressed astonishment at how high Mr Muker had risen since leaving his home town of Faridkot only a few years ago. Mr Muker straightened his back, sat forward in his chair and said sternly that not only was he not from Faridkot, he had never been been to Faridkot. to Faridkot.

It soon transpired of course that we were in the wrong Mr Muker's house. Tea had been drunk and sweetmeats consumed, and most crucially gifts had been given. The wrong gifts to the wrong children. My father hoped that his laughter would be infectious. Never before had laughter been so uncontagious. We stood up, my father muttering apologies but saying how nice it was to have met Mr Muker anyway.

As we got to the door, my father said that at least now he would have no worries of troubles should he ever require the a.s.sistance of the commissioner of traffic for New Delhi. By the look on Mr Muker's face at that point, I reckoned the safest thing for my father to have done would have been never to have travelled in New Delhi again for fear of a personal vendetta against him.

We stepped over the threshold and the relief was almost palpable. As the door closed behind us, my father turned and asked Mr Muker if we could have the gifts back. Thankfully he duly obliged. After all, we still had to visit the real Mr Muker. I don't ever remember visiting the real Mr Muker. Perhaps we never did.

Tonight I feel like I felt all those years ago; an interloper bringing unsolicited gifts to the wrong people. They are just too polite to say anything. Yamina, who has studied social and political science at Cambridge, asks what's to be served for dinner.

'Shepherd's pie,' I blurt, hoping that the speed of my saying it will somehow disguise the nature of the dish.

'G.o.d, I hope it's better than the one we had at Cambridge.'

I was hoping that perhaps they'd had limited exposure to shepherd's pie. It's so much more difficult to be critical when you have no benchmark. It feels like it's going to be a long night.

Small talk becomes big talk and the evening degenerates into a heated debate about the political state of arts within India. I hope that people will drink themselves into a state of forgetfulness and there would be no need for me to serve dinner.

'I'm starving,' says Lucky, helpfully. I look at her and know I have to do the necessary.

As we eat the shepherd's pie there is talk of the resurgence of independent cinema in India and we continue vociferous exchanges about the westernisation of India. Lisa reaches down and takes a bottle of Tabasco out of her bag, placing it next to her empty plate.

'I always carry this with me. Everywhere. Even in fancy restaurants in Miami. This is the first time in ten years I haven't added Tabasco to a meal. I even forgot I had it with me ... '

Yadesh, who has met Yamina at their time together at Cambridge, is not a fan of British food.

'I loved Britain, but really they have to sort out their food,' he says affectionately about the cuisine of my country of origin.

'I am British,' I say.

'You were born there. You are Indian really.' He tucks in to the next mouthful of food. 'They really do cook some bland English s.h.i.+t.'

It is clear from his implication that he isn't referring to my shepherd's pie as bland English s.h.i.+t.

'You don't mean my food, do you?' I tease playfully. 'Because my food would be described as bland Scottish s.h.i.+t.'

It is very strange, but at this very moment, as the laughter and the chat ring around my ears, I am overcome with a very simple and straightforward notion. As far as these Indians are concerned I'm not British; pure and simple. I have simply been born there. They have very little expectation of me in terms of understanding contemporary Indian life. They see me as the son of a man who was born in India. This is very confusing. I have spent the evening feeling very different to these people, to my Indian contemporaries. It is quite revealing for me to feel so very British, so very Scottish on the roof terrace of a third-floor apartment in a desirable neighbourhood in New Delhi, yet be regarded as completely Indian by these Indians. There is no point in arguing about it. This is their perception and I have to try and make some sense of it.

The next time I look up, all the plates are empty. But my heart feels full.

Later that evening I meet up with Rovi again. He takes me for a late-night kebab. This has become a bit of an inst.i.tution between our families, a roadside kebab on every visit. We stand eating at the makes.h.i.+ft table enjoying the silence of men.

'Rovi,' I ask, mid-mouthful. 'Do you think of me as Indian or British?'

Rovi chews and ponders, ponders and chews.

'Hardeep,' he says sweetly, 'you are neither Indian nor British. You are just Hardeep.'

I think it's the best answer he could ever give.

9.

VALLEY OF THE DALS.

303 things I counted in New Delhi Train Station

A man in a wheelchair wearing a neck brace, in his pyjamas and carrying a Zimmer frame.